and it's bending the truth
by gun that sings
Summary: Waylon doesn't come home. But someone else does.
1. Chapter 1

**I was inspired to write this after seeing "No way back" by Relina-ru, on devianart.**

 **Standard disclaimers apply. Unbeta'd. Title taken from the lyrics of "The Small Print" by Muse.** **Thank you for reading.**

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Lisa gets a call in the evening.

It's Waylon's voice coming through, but it sounds a bit off: stilted, filtering through static. She wonders: bad cell reception? Is he not feeling well? Waylon says, "honey, the car broke down, so I'll be staying the night here." She opens her mouth to interject, meaning to tell him she can borrow their neighbor's rickety station wagon to come get him, but he doesn't let her get a word in edgewise. "Please don't worry about me; I'll be home before you know it. Love you."

 _Click._ The line goes dead.

Lisa stares at the phone for a good, long minute before putting it back in its cradle. The silence that follows feels abrasive; his parting words, hanging in the air between her and the wall, feel abrupt—choppy, even.

If her memory serves her right, it's the shortest conversation over the phone they've ever had. Waylon didn't even ask if he could tell their boys goodnight, which he does anyway if he's late—even if he ends up arriving home in time to tuck them into bed.

Lisa bites the inside of her cheek, thinking of picking up the phone again. The sound of the television blaring in the living room is white noise, a backdrop for the thoughts beginning to run through her head.

There's no reason to doubt him. The car's given them trouble before. Last winter, the weather was so bad he had to find a motel to spend the night in. This isn't something particularly alarming—but it feels peculiar all the same.

Well— _peculiar_ isn't the right word for it, she realizes, when she mouths the word, eyes still locked on the landline. It's odd; it's strange; it's out of place, but not enough to warrant any argument on her part.

Pensive, Lisa turns away to inform her sons that their father should—no, _will_ —be back in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

After the boys go to bed, Lisa stays up. Unease sits in her belly, cold and hard like a stone; unable to sleep, she sits in the living room in the dark, feeling owlish in her blinking away the sluggish seconds. She won't say it, but she's hoping for the phone to ring again. Even if it wakes up the boys, she'll be happy to hear it—to hear Waylon say, sheepishly, "honey, can you come get me?" And, if he calls, she will go to him; she may complain—tease him—for him changing his mind, but she will drive out in the dead of night to bring him home.

Waylon and Lisa have talked about this—how it's painful not to be home. Neither of them like to be away from it; when they are, they are unable to sleep. A hole opens up inside them, small at first, but then, like a mouth, it begins to fall open until it gapes. It's a dark, helpless feeling that only subsides when they're home again with their sons, safe and sound.

The last time Lisa had to be away from her family, it was when her sister had her first child; she needed the help, and didn't know who else to call, but would only pay for one person's airfare. That took two weeks to get through, and Lisa hardly slept all through those nights.

The clock on the top shelf of the bookcase ticks away, chiming off at midnight, soft like bells, but Lisa only shifts in her seat, waiting, waiting—for something, _anything_ , to come out of the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun comes up around six. The boys get up at eight and are picked up by a friend's parents at fifteen till nine. The seconds tick by, torturously slow; before they left the house, Lisa told her boys not to worry, that even their father had to falter in his routine of punctuality _sometimes_ , and they smiled, laughed, and were out the door in a flash.

Lisa does not like lying, especially not to her sons. She smiled tightly at them as the door shut, but now that smile is gone; her façade cracked, and she worries, picking at the hem of her sweater when she realizes how sore her cheek is from biting it all night.

Waylon always told her not to worry. In the past, he said, "things will work out, don't worry, Lisa," and then he was proven to be correct. And she wants to believe that, this time, it is the same. She wants to, _badly_ , but ends up calling his work place less than twenty minutes later.

The receptionist chirps, "he's busy at the moment, but I'll let him know you called!"

Lisa asks to speak with his supervisor. The call is transferred to another line. "Missus Park," a man says, and his voice feels vaguely familiar. Perhaps she met him in passing when she came to pick up Waylon in the past, back when she used to drive him to work; maybe she overheard him talking to her husband on the phone in those low-voiced conversations she wished she could snatch pieces of when she slid by him down the hall. "Can I help you?"

His voice drips. With what, Lisa can't tell, but she doesn't like it. It reminds her of her eyes burning, of a scratch tearing a line down her throat. It reminds her of _sickness_. She inquires after her husband, and his whereabouts, trying to ignore the headache beginning to build at the back of her skull. "Yes, I see," the man says, "your husband is helping us with a maintenance issue—one of those things that can go horribly wrong if not treated immediately, you understand."

She says she does. It takes a great amount of effort not to grind her teeth in frustration. She doesn't know how she knows, but she can feel it: something is _off_. Something is wrong here. And there's no way to prove it.

"I'll pass along your concerns, Missus Park," the man assures her, "have a good rest of your day, now."

 _Click_. The line goes dead.


	4. Chapter 4

It's Lisa's day off today, but she wishes she could do more with her hands to keep herself busy. So she washes the dishes, scrubs them until her hands ache from the scalding water; so she packs and repacks the fridge, and then the pantry; she answers emails and returns phone calls to clients until there's nothing left to do but exit out of the tab and sit back, waiting.

Lisa is a patient woman—she has to be, with three boys in her house—but the waiting is weighing heavily on her. The ringing silence dances over her, into her, making her unable to sit still; she walks out of the house with the intent to buy some groceries at the corner store, but makes it halfway before realizing she left her wallet at home. She goes back, taking it slow; when she's back in the living room, she, without knowing what else to do, collapses back onto the couch. Sits and waits.

And waits and waits and waits.


	5. Chapter 5

When they get home in the afternoon, the boys are crestfallen. "Dad's not back yet?" they ask her, glancing around, as if they hope that Waylon is simply around the corner. Her older son—with his father's face and her eyes—is looking at her, pointedly, as if he can sense her worry. As if he knows that there _could_ be something wrong, like she fears there is.

Though she tries to reassure them as she prepares their usual afternoon snack—triangle-cut sandwiches stacked with classic American cheese and several layers of stripped turkey—she is unable to bury her unease. It claws at her. It starts to eat at her, then, when she realizes her older son stands in the doorway of the kitchen, holding onto the plate, unmoving, his eyes narrowing perceptibly.

"Mom," he says, and it hurts. "Is Dad okay?" He keeps his voice low; there's no use distressing his little brother, who is in the next room, trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle on the floor as cartoons blare from the television. After a beat, he asks, softly, "are _you_ okay?"

Lisa considers lying to him again—fits the idea in her mouth, preparing to wrench it from the back of her teeth, but it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. She begins to twist her wedding band on her finger—a nervous habit she'd learned from her own mother, long ago.

She thinks, it was easier when he'd been younger—when he hadn't been so observant.

Or has he always been like this, and she is only just now noticing?

"Mom," he says when she doesn't answer him, "have you slept today?"

She blinks. Once, twice, three times before inhaling, trying to steady herself. For him. For his brother. For her own sake.

"I'm fine, sweetie," she assures him, and reaches out, ruffling his hair. He squirms away, twisting to keep the plate in his hands from tipping, and she smiles as he disappears around the corner.

Lisa hasn't slept. She's tired; exhaustion is beginning to pull at the threads of her consciousness, threatening to unravel some rational part of her should she go much longer without rest. But she knows she won't sleep, not until she can put her mind at ease.

She waits another hour before pulling on her coat and boots. "Boys," she says, trying to smile as they turn to look at her, "I'm going to pick up your father. If I'm not back by six, there's leftovers in the fridge for you—and no ice cream tonight. You're getting cake on Wednesday, remember? And _don't_ open that door for anyone, remember."

Her youngest rolls her eyes at that last comment. His brother, on the other hand, frowns, studying her. She wants to protect him, though, from her anxiety-ridden thoughts; he shouldn't have to see her like this, frazzled and off-balance simply because something inside her is telling her to _go, go, go_ to her husband.

"Okay, Mom," her oldest says, nodding once.

His eyes say, _I wonder if I should be scared since Mom is scared_ , and it tears her in two to see it. But she steels herself, turns away, and begins to walk out.

But she stops by the phone. Considers it for a moment as the boys resume talking over the television.

She picks up the phone. Dials the number she memorized so Waylon wouldn't have to worry about her not being able to contact him at work.

The line is dead. No receptionist, no machine, no elevator music: only static.

Lisa's blood runs cold. She leaves, making sure to lock the door behind her, and darts across the street towards the neighbor's house and their station wagon.


	6. Chapter 6

It's no use. The old woman who lives across the street is gone—her windows are dark and shuttered, the front door bolted and locked. Lisa curses under her breath, meaning to swallow her frustration, but when she tries, it only feels like it's going to choke her.

She stands there under the coming dark, clenching and unclenching her fists. _Logically_ , Waylon might say if he were here, she shouldn't be so worried about him. He called to assure her, after all—and maybe it's supposed to be enough.

But it's not. It isn't enough for Lisa.

In her heart of hearts, dread is starting to clutch at her, coldly and without remorse, heavy in its dead weight.

She doesn't know if any of the other neighbors will lend her their car for the night. After spending years apologizing to them for her boys dashing through meticulously kept rose gardens and freshly planted daffodils, it's not unlikely that most people on their block still hold a grudge for their ruined work.

Lisa is beginning to feel desperate. Composing herself under the yawning sky is growing difficult—and she has her sons to think about. Waylon, she knows, would shake his head at her—understanding, but perhaps tiredly—for worrying them over nothing. And, even if she does have reason to worry, that doesn't mean _they_ should. They're young. Children. Her _sons_. She'll do anything to ensure their comfort, their safety, to keep their psyches intact.

Not knowing what else to do, Lisa goes next door—to the yellow leaning house diagonal from the Park family. The one with the seven children whose shrill shrieks fill every summer's air—the one belonging to parents who, to Waylon, shouldn't have been allowed to reproduce in the first place, for all their faults and shortcomings their children suffer for. She rings the door bell, smoothing her hair back away from her face—forgetting that it's been pulled back and out of the way.

The wife answers, stone-faced, smelling of stale bread. Lisa says, "I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but this is an emergency." The wife raises her eyebrows. "My husband—I need to go get him, but he has the car, and it's broken down." The wife looks as if she's going to spit at Lisa's feet. "Do you think I could use your car?" Quickly, she adds, "I would owe you."

The wife opens her mouth after a solemn moment, but then the husband calls for her; wailing and shrieks come from within, past the dimly lit front hall, and Lisa tries not to imagine the children inside biting, picking, and hissing at each other—like feral cats, she thinks, making a conscious effort not to shake her head.

The wife is grim when she tells Lisa she can't help her, that her husband wouldn't allow it—they were low on gas anyway—and she shuts the door in Lisa's face, not unkindly, but firmly all the same.

So Lisa stands there on the doorstep, silent and still for a moment before she huffs out a breath. On the exhale, she tries to force upon it all her frustration, her worry, her concern—but her chest is tight, dangerously close to bursting with her anxious thoughts.

Reluctantly, Lisa turns back and heads for the house.

At least, she thinks to herself, trying to be optimistic, she won't have to leave her sons alone for the night.


	7. Chapter 7

Lisa falls asleep on the couch soon after her sons go up to bed. With the television still on, the harsh light dances across her eyelids, the droning of the low volume fading to black. Her sleep is restless, wrought with scattered dreams, fueled by nothing but every horrible _what if_ her mind can conjure up.

The doorbell rings.

Lisa startles awake, immediately thinking: it must be Waylon. He must have lost his key.

This is the thing: Waylon doesn't come home. But someone else does.

Lisa flings open the door, her heart in her throat, and stops dead in her tracks when her eyes fall on the man standing on her front porch. Things click into place, all in the slowest instant she's ever experienced.

A man stands before her. Taller than Waylon; bulkier, too. Slicked black hair; peeling, red blisters on his face. His eyes...

Lisa inhales sharply, and tastes blood in her mouth.

"Darling," the man says, smiling benevolently at her as if he's been waiting to come home to her all his life.

Lisa's blood runs cold.


End file.
